The Wisdom of the Birds
The Prince Who Thought He Was a....
The Gift of the Dream Teacher
Samuel's Journey
A Tale of the Ba'al Shem Tov (3 parts)
Storytelling Article
Selected Bibliography

Please contact author or publisher for permission to use this material. Sheldon Oberman is available for storytelling and gives workshops on traditional and personal storytelling.

A bird understands in a different way than we do. We learn here on the earth. A bird learns up there, as it flies through the air.
One day a bird was flying, free and happy, sailing up and down, around and over when suddenly, she was caught, tangled in a net and pulled down out of the sky.
A hunter had her, gripped her in his hands. He was about to wring her neck when she cried out, "Hoo, hoo, hoo! You foolish man, why do want to kill me!"
"I like birds," said the hunter. "And I like to eat! So I like to eat birds. Ha!"
"If you let me free," said the bird, "I'll give you three.
"Three what? Wishes?"
"What good are wishes when you don't know what you truly need? I will give you three pieces of wisdom."
"Wisdom from a bird brain! Ha!"
"Set me free and my wisdom will set you free from a lot of pain and trouble."
"It's a deal," said the hunter. "Give me three."
"First," said the bird. "Do not regret anything that you have done. Second, do not believe anything that does not make sense.
Third, do not try anything that can not be done."
The hunter repeated, "First, don't regret anything that I've done. Second, don't believe anything that doesn't make sense.
Third don't try anything that can't be done. Okay, I've got it."
The hunter freed the bird and she flew up to tree laughing all the way. "Hoo, hoo, hoo! You foolish man, why did you let me go? My stomach is full of diamonds. You could have been rich."
"Arg!" the hunter yelled. "What did I do!" He began climbing the tree trying to catch the bird. But as he reached her branch she flew to a higher one. Branch by branch, higher and higher up to the very top. There the bird fluttered just out of reach and the man... fell, breaking through every branch. Bam! Bam! Bam! Landing with an awful THUD! All he could do was lay in the dirt and groan, "Oooo. Aaaa. Uugh."
"Hoo, hoo, hoo!" cooed the bird as she circled overhead. "You foolish man. Don't you remember what I just taught you? First, 'Do not regret anything that you've done.' Instead, you regretted letting me go. Second, 'Do not believe anything that doesn't make sense.' Instead you believed that my stomach was full of diamonds. Third, 'Do not try anything that can't be done.' Instead you climbed a tree trying to catch a bird. Now look at all your pain and trouble. What good would diamonds do a foolish man like you? You can't even hold on to three pieces of wisdom from a bird."
Then off she flew, free and happy as a bird.

THE END

822 Dorchester
Winnipeg R3M 0R7
204 478 1644

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There was once a country full of people who loved to show off, strut about in fancy clothes and brag as much as they could. The royal prince of that country was brilliant, brave and handsome so he got to show off and strut about and brag more than anyone else.
But the prince had a secret and the secret began to bother him more and more. Finally the prince became silent and depressed. He sat and stared at his feet day after day Finally during a great banquet he stood up and shouted to everyone, "I cannot stand pretending any more. I am not a brilliant, brave and handsome prince! I'll tell you what I really am." He threw his food off the table, he tore his clothing off his body and he said, "I am a rooster!"
The prince gave a cockle and a doodle doo and began to talk like a rooster. Then he began to walk like a rooster. He even scratched about for bugs and seeds and ate like a rooster.
"The prince is crazy, crazy, crazy!" everybody shouted.
"My son's a royal lunatic!" cried the king and he offered a fortune to anyone who could make him better.
The royal doctor and social worker and psychiatrist did everything they could. No good. The royal physiotherapist, holistic practitioner, and acupuncturist did everything they could. No good. Finally came a royal support group of princes in crisis. No good.
Then Joseph the handyman showed up to fix the royal toilet. Now Joseph wasn't important, in fact, Joseph was considered far less important than anybody. But when he saw the prince acting like a rooster, he told the king, "Your son is in worse shape than your toilet but I can fix him."
"You'd better not fail," said the king.
"Just leave us alone for a week," said Joseph.
The first thing Joseph did was throw off all his clothes, Then he began to cockle and doodle doo and walk like a rooster. He scratched the ground for bugs and seeds and ate like a rooster.
For two days the prince ignored him. But on the third day he got friendly in a roosterly kind of way and they shared their bugs and seeds.
The next day at sunrise, the prince began his regular crowing. Joseph said, "You have a terrific cockle and pretty good doodle but you need to practise your doo."
The prince was so surprised that he blurted out, "Roosters can't talk!"
"I happen to be a rooster who can talk. And why not?"
The prince thought this over. After a while he began to talk, though only about roosterly things like feathers and sunrises.
The next day when they woke up, Joseph gave a really good cockle doodle doo. He walked over to a fat green caterpillar and ate it in one bite.
"Hey," said the prince. "You walked like a person. Roosters can't do that."
Joseph smiled and said, "I happen to be a rooster who can walk like a person. And why not?"
Soon the prince was walking in a very graceful human way, just like Joseph.
The next day, Joseph put on his clothes. He said that he happened to be a rooster who wore clothes. The prince found that his princely clothes were just as good as feathers. And why not?
By the end of the week, they were both ordering human food right off the royal menu, though the prince still preferred a heavy sprinkling of seeds.
"My son is a prince again!" cried the king. He declared a national holiday.
"What's my father talking about?" the prince asked Joseph. "I'm a rooster."
Joseph answered him. "People see you talking and walking like a prince, dressing and eating like a prince. Let them think you're a prince. And why not? The important thing is that you know who you are."
The king overheard him and was furious. "My son still thinks he's a rooster," the king yelled. "You said you'd make him better!"
"He is better, far better than before," said Joseph. "When he thought he was a prince he was a show off, then he was silent and depressed and then he was a lunatic. What about now?"
The king saw that his son was happy and relaxed and treated everyone very kindly, not at all like before.
"Tell me," asked Joseph. "Who would you rather have for a son? Someone who kept thinking, "I'm such a wonderful prince!" but showed off like some kind of a rooster? Or someone who thinks, "I'm just a rooster" but he acts like a prince?"
The king shook Joseph's hand and gave his son a big hug.
At the end of it all Joseph got a great reward and the country got a true prince.

THE END

Sheldon Oberman 822 Dorchester Ave.
Winnipeg Manitoba R3M 0R7 478 1644

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There was a young man who wanted to know everything and right away. He talked to everyone he could find and he learned a bit of this, a bit of that. Then he heard of an old man who knew so much that he could teach you whether you were awake or asleep.

The young man searched until he found where the old one lived. It was a small shack in a muddy village far away. (about five miles past Yehoopitz) "What a dump!" he thought. "There's not even a door -- just a piece of cloth." Still he called in, "Hey, in there! -- I hear you're pretty smart for an old man."

The Old One lifted the cloth and answered, "Sometimes I think I'm smart, but what do I know?

"How about telling me something new? he asked.

"I'm an old man. Everything I know is old."

"Look," said the young man, a bit on edge. "I've got an hour, give me your best shot."

"An hour?" the Old One said. "That's a long time for someone with no patience. Come in." They entered a small empty room. Old One said, "Let's sit for that hour and think about what changes and what doesn't."

So they sat quietly on floor for 20 minutes, 40 minutes, almost 59 minutes. Finally the young man said, "This is a stupid waste of time."

"Fine!" said the Old One. "At least you've learned the way out."

So the young man stormed off but as he pushed through the doorway he got tangled in the cloth. Suddenly he was falling and he landed in a river that wasn't there before. He would have drown but the cloth kept him magically afloat even as the river swept him to the sea. He drifted for days until he was found by pirates. He joined their crew and wore the cloth as a pirate's sash as he sailed the seven seas. Finally he could no longer stand their wild ways and he escaped.

He landed on the shore of a desert and wandered till he met a tribe of nomads. He joined them and his cloth became the long robe of a wanderer. He had many adventures. He even married a princess of the tribe. Together they ruled a desert kingdom until at last they became very old. He spent his last years by an oasis, staring into the quiet water. He kept his cloth wrapped tightly around him to keep off the cool night breeze.

One day, his grandson fell in the water and cried, "Help, I'm drowning!" He jumped in and saved the boy but he himself sank down, down to the very bottom and the darkness swallowed him.

It was then he saw faint light far away. As it came closer it looked like a glowing face smiling down on him - - the face of the Old One that he'd met so long ago.

"You'll be fine, don't you worry," the Old One said.

There he was -- a young man again lying in the doorway of the shack. The Old One was untangling the cloth that was wrapped about him like a dry cocoon.

"What! What happened?" he sputtered. "I'm not old?

I'm not in the desert? I..I...!"

"A dream," said the Old One. "I gave you a dream. In the last minute of the hour we shared together you had a little dream."

"But I thought I lived a whole lifetime!" he said.

"Ah yes," said the Old One. "That's how a life can be.

You can rush along from here to there, learn a bit of this, a bit of that. But when that life is over, there you are - on your back sputtering, "What? What happened?"

The young man looked deeply into the Old One's eyes and asked, "Will you teach me real knowledge?

"That takes real time and real work," said the teacher.

"All I showed you was an illusion, empty magic to get your attention."

"I will stay and learn from you," said the young man.

"As long as you will have me."

The Old One draped the cloth upon the young man's shoulders and it became his prayer shawl as the young man began to learn the Old One's way of knowledge.

THE END

Sheldon Oberman
822 Dorchester Ave
Winnipeg Manitoba R3M 0R7

(204) 478 1644
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A young man named Samuel was walking slowly down a road. Where he was coming from seemed to him like a pillar of black smoke. Where he was headed seemed like another pillar of black smoke. And everything between seemed like a desert of grey ash. Yet it was a beautiful day. He was walking through a lovely old village. And the streets were full of busy people and children at play. But the year was 1945. The country was Germany. And Samuel was a Jew.

Where Samuel was coming from was a place called Buchenwald. It had been a concentration camp where he had seen thousands of his people murdered day after day until finally the war had ended and those few who had not died were told that they were saved, that they were free. Samuel did not feel saved. He did not feel free. He felt as if his spirit was still struggling to escape - not just from that camp and not just from Germany but from the world itself - as if it were trying to follow all those many others who had been swept away in the fiery storm.

Where Samuel was walking was a village in Poland - the home of his family, his friends and neighbours. Yet he knew in his heart that when he would arrive, there would be no one left to greet him, or to remember him, or to tell him that he was not just a nameless ghost left behind by all the rest. Samuel stopped. He thought, Why do I keep on going? I don't really exist anymore. I have become nothing. Nevertheless there was something that remained alive. He could still feel hunger and thirst. He reached for his canteen. It was empty. He looked around for a public well or water tap. There was nothing. He decided to knock on a door.

A woman answered. She smiled warmly. "Hello," she said. "How can I help you?" Samuel thought, She is friendly because she does not know that I am a Jew. "A drink of water, please," he said. "Then I'll be on my way." "Come in, come in," she said. "You look so tired." Samuel followed her into the kitchen and he stood quietly as she poured water into his canteen. He pretended to listen as she chattered about all the changes since the war had ended. But as his gaze drifted across the room something caught him and it wrenched his heart. "What is that?" he asked pointing to the table. "What?" she saw that he was staring at the covering. "Oh, that tablecloth," she answered. "Yes, isn't it a funny looking thing." It was not funny to Samuel. For it was not a table cloth at all. It was a prayer shawl.

"Where did you get it?" he asked. "My son was an officer in the army. He was always bringing me things he found one place or another. One day he brought me that." Samuel thought of how the shawl must once have been worn by some other Jew, how it might have held that man's deepest hopes, his most sacred dreams. Only to be spread across that table, stained by coffee, scattered over with crumbs. "Let me have it," he told the woman. "I will give you whatever I can. So a bargain was struck. Samuel had very little to give but the woman cared very little for the shawl.

Soon Samuel was again walking down the road, still alone, still toward those desolated homes. Yet as he wrapped the shawl around himself he seemed to feel his spirit cease to struggle, feel it settle back into his body and accept the shawl as its shelter. "This shawl belonged to a Jew," he told himself. "Now it has returned to a Jew." So too, the power of Samuel's life was returning. Once more he knew who and what he was. Samuel had rescued a prayer shawl and the prayer shawl had rescued him.

THE END

822 Dorchester Ave
Winnipeg, Mb R3M 0R7
(204) 478 1644

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I have been long fascinated by the Ba'al Shem Tov, the legendary sage and wonder worker whom the Hassids claim as their spiritual founder. I used his tales along with those of the Prophet Elijah and references to the Kabbalah as the mythic structure of a group of stories set in Winnipeg's North End. Old Man Werner, an immigrant caretaker, tells them to Young Danny Stein, thus passing on a mystical vision of the world, one which has been almost obliterated.

I learned this tale not page by page but by "heart" and set in my memory for performance. Unlike literature, the text is more a script for performance. It is meant to be read over thought about and be retold.

I've tried to remain faithful to the original tale. Yet the very nature of storytelling means that the tale develops many versions and some are significantly different. It has evolved over the years even in the dedicated care of the Hasidic Jews who preserved such tales as part of a religious/cultural experience that existed in 18th century Poland.

How to find the original story? A folktale, especially a mystical one, is more than the common denominator of its many versions just as it is more the sum of its parts. There is a spirit about it. It is that spirit that I've tried to express both trough interpretation and translation; the dramatic interpretation of performance and the translation into fresh words and images.

This is the way most storytellers work today; keeping tales alive by respecting what seems essential while adapting other aspects. However, I have avoided "reconstructing" the moral values or religious elements. It might make the tale more comfortable to our modern sensibilities but it would be false to the spirit of the tale.

Only very strong and true stories like this one maintain their powers through such "translations". I expect that when the time comes for another version, the "original" will find its way again through that next storyteller.

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Part One of a Tale Reb Yacov's Task

This is one of a hundred tales the Hassids tell of the Ba'al Shem Tov whose words and deeds have been their inspiration for these two hundred years and more.

The time came for the death of Rabbi Israel Ben Eliezar, Blessed be his Name, the one known as the Ba'al Shem Tov, Master of the Sacred Name, the Seventh Holder of the Book of Mysteries, the one who faced the sorcery of the evil Paritz and turned it back upon him, who descended into the Land of Death and rescued a stolen bride, and who ascended even higher, guided by the Governor of Dreams to the realm of Heaven known in the Kaballah as the Bird's Nest.

The Ba'al Shem summoned his disciples to his bedside. He blessed them and told each one his future task.

When he came to Reb Yacov he said, "Repeat my words. Recount my deeds. You shall be my maggid."

Reb Yacov turned pale, "Your storyteller! But, rabbi, I don't know how to tell a story. I will waste my life in poverty and your wonders will be forgotten."

"Tell what you know as best you can," said the Ba'al Shem. "You can learn to be a great maggid. And if you do you will be rewarded."

So Reb Yacov wandered through Poland and beyond telling stories. There are Jews everywhere and they had all heard of the Ba'al Shem Tov so Reb Yacov was always welcome. He tried his best but he was a studious man who had always preferred to observe rather than perform. He been drawn by the great passion and spirit of the Ba'al Shem but had little of his own. And so his tales tended to be that way as well; highly accurate and filled with insight but dry and so weighed down by detail. Still the wonders of the Ba'al Shem Tov shone through and though Reb Yacov never earned enough to rest, he never went hungry.

After some years, Reb Yacov heard of a very wealthy Jew, a baron in Italy who was calling for tales of the Master. For every story he had not heard he would pay a golden ducat.

Reb Yacov thought, I know every tale there is to tell, I'll make my fortune. He took the difficult journey to Italy and found the Baron's palace outside Rome. The entrance was crowded with petitioners yet Reb Yacov pushed through and announced that the Ba'al Shem Tov himself had appointed him as his maggid. He was ushered directly to the Baron.

"Give me three days to call my friends and to prepare a banquet in your honour," the Baron said. "Then tell your tales."

During the next three days Reb Yakov heard many other storytellers telling their tales to the Baron. Poor fools, he thought, what do they know? Few of them had even met his teacher and not one of them had been a disciple.

Finally it was Reb Yacov's night. All eyes were upon as he rose to speak. He bowed to the Baron and to the long table of distinguished guests. Then he forgot everything. His mind was like a block of wood.

He stared wildly. He tried to stammer an excuse.

"If you can't tell a tale," said the Baron, "Simply repeat one of his sayings."

He could barely move his lips to say, "I can't".

"A few days rest," said the Baron. "That's what you need."

For the next three days Reb Yacov listened to the others tell more tales. As each story was being told, Reb Yacov recalled every detail of the actual events yet just as quickly he forgot them. He felt furious at the storytellers for they knew so little, got so much wrong and yet they were believed while he sat in silence like an prisoner.

By the time the three days had passed, his mind was like a fire. He remembered a thousand details all at once and without any order. His whole life with the Ba'al Shem Tov seemed a blazing swirl of sparks.

"At least describe the great man," said the Baron.

"He was..." But even his memory of the Ba'al Shem's face was constantly transforming.

"You're sick with fever," said the Baron. "Three more days and you'll be yourself."

For those three days Reb Yacov hid inside his room envying the other tellers and imagining how they were laughing at him. By the third night when he came out to join the rest at supper, he so swamped with self pity and self-contempt that could not think about the Ba'al Shem Tov at all. When the Baron nodded and called for him to speak Reb Yacov dissolved into tears and he begged the Baron to let him leave and head for home.

The Baron looked as upset as Reb Yacov but he handed him a pouch of gold and told him he could go.

So on the tenth day, Reb Yacov headed down the road, wondering why this curse had fallen upon him. He'd done his duty faultlessly, recounting every detail like an accountant who never missed a penny. After keeping such a perfect record there was no worse disaster than losing the entire treasure of the Ba'al Shem's teachings.

He thought, "It's my own fault. The Ba'al Shem has taken back his stories because I was not telling them properly. He said to me, 'Repeat my words. Recount my deeds.' What could I have missed?

Slowly a sensation long forgotten began rising in Reb Yacov's chest - a sense of great well being. His thoughts cleared and he remembered when that sensation had first come to him many years before.

Reb Yacov had been in a square crowded with people, all angry at him. He was trying to speak out his master's message but was choked with fear. He had looked back and seen his master watching him from a window high above the square. It was then he had felt that powerful sensation and the words were suddenly released.

Rev Yacob turned and rushed back to the palace. He found the Baron praying in his chapel in the tower, leaning forward, face shrouded by a prayer shawl.

"I remember something - a story!" Reb Yacob shouted. "No one has ever heard it! I have not even thought about it until today."

Reb Yacov spoke with startling passion as he recalled the events of ten years before --
 

Part Two of A Tale REB YACOV'S TALE

The Ba'al Shem Tov had just accepted me as a student and that night he took me on a journey. As his carriage moved through the darkness, he spoke of the mystical world that lies all around us if only we could see. He taught me wondrous songs and as we sang in harmony, the compartment seemed to hold us in a sacred time and space.

When the morning sun finally shone through, I saw that we had travelled far beyond any ordinary night. We were entering a city far away, a terrible place - a city that hated its Jews. And it was Easter, the very worse time of year, when the city's Jews had to bolt their doors and shutter their windows in fear of curses, rocks, even a full attack; a pogrom with all its terrors.

"We can't stop here," I begged but the Ba'al Shem didn't answer. The carriage lurched into the student quarter near the great cathedral. We alighted and the Ba'al Shem knocked at a heavy oak door. Once, twice. Still no answer. A pack of rough men approached and when they saw that we were Jews, they began to curse and threaten. Just in time, the door opened and a frightened woman rushed us in, horrified that we had drawn attention to her home.

Despite her protests, the Ba'al Shem climbed to the highest room and opened the window. He stood watching the square below as it filled for the Easter sermon. I stood behind him too timid to speak but when I saw the Bishop emerge from the cathedral, I begged him to let me draw the curtain.

"What if the Bishop sees you?" I asked.

"The Bishop's going to preach against us," the old woman cried. "Every year he's gotten worse."

The Ba'al Shem turned to me and said, "Tell the Bishop that I want to speak with him."

I was terrified but he looked at me with such certainty that I soon found myself heading into the square as if in a dream. I heard curses and shouts. My skullcap was struck off my head, but I kept moving forward until I reached the Bishop at his pulpit. He was a fearful sight, stoney faced with a high mitred hat and silver vestments. Somehow I called up to him.

"I have a message from my teacher, Rabbi Israel Ben Eliezer, the Ba'al Shem Tov. He says, 'Tell the Bishop that I want to speak with him."

Two guards grabbed me. The Bishop scowled. Then he said, "Tell your master that I will speak with him after my sermon."

It was not until I returned that I began to shake realizing the danger I'd been in. Yet it wasn't over. When I repeated the Bishop's answer the Ba'al Shem said, "Go back. Tell him, 'You must come now. I will not wait.'"

This time as I entered the crowd I felt the full danger of what I was doing. A dark bear of a man shouted in my face and I froze unable to even understand what he was saying. I turned as if call my master and I saw him watching me from the window high above the square.

Even from that distance I could feel his gaze. A strange sensation came over me and I felt safer than I had ever felt before. More than that, I was filling with a kind of quiet joy. It was then that I spoke for the Ba'al Shem Tov.

The Bishop had just begun his sermon but I interrupted. "The Rabbi Israel Ben Eliezar says, 'You must come now. I will not wait.'" And I pointed to my master.

So it happened. The Bishop stared down at me and then following my hand up towards the Ba'al Shem Tov. The Bishop looked confused. Then he nodded meekly and followed me. The crowd fell away before us. I don't know what happened in that room. I only know there was no sermon afterwards and no attack upon the Jews.

Reb Yakov's story ended. He sat down bewildered. He stared at his hands, amazed by their animation, by the memory of those events and by the passion of his words. When he finally looked up he saw the Baron's face was wet with tears.

"You've remembered so much, Reb Yacov," the Baron said. "But not everything. You still have not remembered me." The Baron took off his prayer shawl, he leaned towards Reb Yacov and said, "I was that Bishop."
 
 

Part Three of A Tale The Baron's Tale

I was born and raised as a Jew not as a Christian though truly I was neither. My only faith was in my ambition. I hated being a Jew, seeing myself as so many others saw me - a despised stranger in their midst.

So I ran away. I changed my name and my appearance, even my past. I became what others admired - a Gentile, a devout Christian, hard working, learned, devout. I joined the Church and moved up quickly through its ranks. Eventually I became a Bishop. But success wasn't enough. Every time I saw a Jew I thought of what a fraud I was. So I hated every Jew. It wasn't hard to turn hate to my advantage. I preached against them and each persecution added to my power.

Everyone respected or feared me except the one who came to me through dreams. He knew my secret self, my every shame. Worst of all he was a Jew.

That day in the square when you, Reb Yacov, called to me I was not surprised. My dreams had told me to expect you. When you came a second time I still managed to resist. But when I saw the Ba'al Shem Tov looking down at me, I recognized him in the light of day as the one who came to me by night in dreams. Then all my wilfulness collapsed.

I was in that room with him for hours. I confessed everything, layer after layer of falsehood fell away. What was left of me was a pathetic creature, only worse - one stained with blood - a hundred innocent lives were on my hands, all of them my own people. I asked the Ba'al Shem what I must do.

He gave the same answer I would have given as a bishop, "Prayer, repentance and good deeds." Then he added, "But only if your heart can fully open, will your life begin again."

"How will I know?" I asked.

"You have ten years. If you succeed, I'll send you someone to tell the story of this day, the day your task began."

When you arrived I remembered you and I thought I was free of all my years of guilt and endless regret. But you forgot everything. That meant that I had failed. But I still had these final days. I threw myself deeper into prayer and repentance. But on the second night you still you couldn't speak. I gave half my wealth away but still on the third night you still couldn't speak. I had to let you go. As I watched you leave the Ba'al Shem entered my memories and I remembered how he had looked at me from that high window overlooking the square. As I remembered his gaze, I realized that it was free of hatred or contempt or any of the ways that I'd judged myself, bad or good. He was seeing me only as a struggling soul.

For the first time, I looked at myself that way and felt a flow of compassion. My heart had opened. It was then, Reb Yakov, that your memory must have returned for you have come back to me with your story. It is the Ba'al Shem's message to me.

"His message to both of us," replied Reb Yacov.

The Baron and the storyteller embraced. The Baron rewarded Reb Yacov with a home and with a school. Reb Yacov attracted many students for he became a great storyteller who could speak the words and recount the deeds of the Ba'al Shem Tov as he was meant to do.

The End

Sheldon Oberman

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by Sheldon Oberman

Here's a great exercise for a storyteller - take something you've told or written and try it in a new medium - turn a tale into a song, or a dramatic monologue, a film treatment, a radio script or a play. Maybe you will discover its "true form". You may also discover a whole new field for your creativity. At the very least, the exercise may give you new insights for the next draft of your tale.

As storytellers we need to keep playing with the form of things -Art is mimesis - an imitation of life. The first transformation happens when we reshape a tale by performing it. I learned this best when I joined a theatre group and we were given drama exercises based on common fairy tales. Then there was improvisation - constantly creating new characters, new situations, new worlds without end. It was all great training for presentations.

I learned to turn tales into plays as a school teacher with my students. Some of my friends learned by creating plays as camp counsellors.

Recently I had to learn the art of transformation in a fuller way when I was commissioned to turn my published children's story into a script for the stage. In "The Always Prayer Shawl" Adam receives a prayer shawl from his grandfather as a boy. It changes just as he does until years later, he passes it on to his own grandson. Based on my grandfather's life, the story described a life cycle and the transmission and transformation of Jewish tradition.

Turning an eight minute story into sixty pages of dramatic action and dialogue - that was, as they say, another story altogether. However, your future film, radio or play script may begin with a simple story (original or traditional) no longer than a few minutes. Scripts are often first hawked by a writer with an even shorter "treatment".

Try this "trick" at home - dramatise a scene from your favourite tale. Remove yourself so that you are no longer translating or interpreting or explaining the story and the people in it. Cut everything away but the characters' words and actions.

The set is minimal, a mere suggestion will do - let your imagined director take care of it. The atmosphere will be set later with some clever lighting, a bit of music and sound effects so don't be concerned about that either. Let the characters loose to express themselves by themselves. And if you have to be in the story as the narrator, then make yourself a character as well. The voices and actions may seem quite weak and awkward at first but they will become stronger and more vital with time and exercise. Try a single scene for a start.

For my part, I had to write many new scenes. I only had two scenes with any dialogue or detailed action in my original story. I also needed to create a second character as a balance and contrast - that turned out to be Miriam, a firebrand social activist. She challenged Adam and also loved and married him. There was a central "prop" with its symbolism and transformative power - the prayer shawl. Most of this was only briefly indicated in the original story. Much was developed from scratch.

In other words, to dramatise a simple storyline one needs many, many more words and actions. This does not have to be done alone. You may have organizations in your area to help you. In my case, once I approached a local community theatre with my story. They commissioned me to write it as a play. The local playwrights organization had a grant to provide me with a mentor. A year down the line, I had a working script and a week long workshop with five actors, a director and a technical person. I did rewrites every night until my play was performed to a small test audience. Once it was solid, it had a professional debut.

Even as I write this article, my local playwrights union is running a Sunday afternoon drop in for anyone who has a script and wants to share it with other writers. Some people at that table haven't anything more than a couple of sketched out scenes. There are also some empty chairs - one that you could fill.

Transferring your skills to film, radio and video is also not as difficult as you might think - there are courses available but there are also chances on the "ground floor" without great pressures. I got to write a short script (10 minutes) for members of a local film co-op. Writer friends of mine created stories for a video co-op. My first film was based on a story that wasn't very good on paper but was almost okay on film. (We had a better time making it than anyone had watching it). The people who gave us our "breaks" were also amateurs - film and video makers who could produce or run the technical end but were not writers. Some had storylines that needed shaping, others just had a camera, film, and a crew all waiting for "action". There is probably a notice right now on a co-op bulletin board near you for a volunteer writer willing to join some motley crew. You could have a story they'd be happy to try out.

Did anything come of our films and videos? Nothing to impress Hollywood, but it gave new life to my writing alive and some of those friends eventually became professionals in the industry.

In the same way, I learned to write for radio when a local radio station advertised a week long course to train writers. Radio producers are always willing to read someone's "treatment" These media which have plenty of technically skilled people but are often short on writers. However, don't expect to be paid in advance and in the cases of co-ops, don't expect anything but a share of the donuts during the shoot.

These media are more dramatic than writing for readers though not as intimate as a direct storytelling. It's a group producing something for an even larger group. It is hard to describe the thrill I had when my play debuted, when the words and actions were presented with the full art and heart of actors before an audience who had come out as they do for every play because they want it to work and want it to take them away with its fantasy and its truth. The story became something else - something like a magnificent craft taking flight for the first time or a set of wooden puppets awakening to life - find your own metaphor but I'll never forget it.

Transforming your story into another medium can help you grow you as a storyteller. It is a fresh form for your talents. Do you compromise the truth of your vision? For me, my book and play versions each had its unique value. If I had originally written the story as a play I'd have been just as challenged to turn it into a storytelling. I learned a lot about writing for the stage. I also learned about writing more dramatically for personal storytelling. Most of all I relearned something about this "work" we are all in. We may separate ourselves into specialties such as storytellers or scriptwriters but first of all we are "at play" as artists.

And if we are playing - we can play at any game we want.

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Selected Bibliography for Jewish Stories

The most authentic and earliest stories are found in the Agadah of the Talmud and the Midrash which spans about 1200 years and ends with the closing of the Babylonian schools in 1040.

CLASSIC

Bible Legends; An Introduction to Midrash UAHC Press 88  2 volumes - Lillian Freehof

The Legends of the Jews 7 volumes Jewish Publication Society 1948-1966 Louis Ginsberg - (major authority, chronological)

Classic Hasidic Tales Meyer Levin, Dorset 59 (a good intro to Hasidic tales, especially to the Ba'al Shem Tov)

Stories of Reb Nachman Adin Steinsaltz, Random/Bantam (mystical)

Yiddish Folktales Pantheon Books 88 Yivo Institute (well researched, a bit dry, could use an artistic retelling)

Jewish Folktales - Pinhas Sadeh, Doubleday 89

Myth and Legend 3 volumes Angelo Rappaport, Ktov Publishing (treats ancient tales as myths rather than sacred lore)
also versions by theologian Martin Buber and authors Elie Weisel and Isaac Balshevis Singer, (less authoriative and more stylized).

POPULAR

A Treasury of Jewish Folklore, Bantam - Nathan Ausubel, a great inexpensive survey of Ashkanazi folktales, proverbs and anecdotes

The Joys of Yiddish, Simon and Shuster 68 Leo Rosten (a best seller for many years - not tales as much as a humourous look at the Jewish/Yiddish way of telling stories

A Sampler of Jewish American Folklore August House 68  Josepha Sherman (generally light and humourous)

The Joy of Jewish Memories Songbook, Tara 84  Sol Zim (nostalgic songs that can complement stories)

RECENT RETELLINGS

Some tales in these 6 paperbacks of Howard Shwartz are newly translated Sephardic tales from the Israel Folklore Archives, Tel Aviv

Elijah's Violin, Harper and Row

Miriam's Tambourine, Oxford University Press

Gabriel's Palace, Oxford Univ

Gates to the Old City, Wayne State University

Voices Within the Ark

Lilith's Cave, Harper and Row (horror)

Jewish Tales One Generation Tells Another, Aronson 89

Chosen Tales Stories told by Jewish Storytellers, Aronson 95

both edited by Pnina Shram (a touching storyteller and editor)

Shlomo's Stories - Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, Aronson 94

(a personable and authentic teller of Hasidic tales)

Hasidic Tales of the Holocaust - Yaffa Eliach, Oxford U

The Book of Women's Jewish Tales - B.Rush, Aronson

While Standing on One Foot - Nina Jaffe and Zeitlin, Henry Holt (short, clear stories for children)

The Family Book of Midrash 52 stories from the Sages - B. Goldin

For fiction and parables adaptable to storytelling consider: Franz Kafka, S.Y.Agnon, I.L.Peretz and Sholom Aleichem